


WTF Ghosts?

by Zigster



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: APOTHECARY HUSBANDS, Canon Divergence, Cinnamon Buns in the lobby, Curses, Ghosts, Hauntings, I swear, I will go down with this ship name, M/M, Slight Divergence, The Batman Forever Soundtrack, and made half the characters into ghosts, but don't worry this is a happy story, but first!, ghosts!, meaning I brought Patrick into the season one universe, no biggie, pastry, played on loop, stevie and patrick and the lawyer are all haunting it, the motel is haunted, with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22249090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: Basically, everything is the same . . . except for the addition of three ghosts who not only haunt the motel but are bound to it by a mysterious, unseen force. No one is quite sure how this came to be but they have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with Maureen Budd's death, the cinnamon buns in the lobby, and the Batman Forever soundtrack.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose
Comments: 48
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/gifts).



> This crazy idea came to me on a whim one day when I got 'Kiss From a Rose' by Seal stuck in my head. Side note: has anyone actually read the lyrics to that song? It's _Grey._ Not _Grave._ My mind was blown.  
> Anyway! 
> 
> I'd like to thank the glorious Tackytiger for being a great friend, the cultivator of my Dan Levy love, all-around cheerleader of fic creation, and my beta reader for this utter insanity you're about to read. Thanks, Tacky! You're the best!

* * *

When the Rose family finishes bidding each other good night, and all the lights have been turned off, David places his phone face down on the nightstand, and attempts to settle himself in the smallest bed he’s slept in since infancy. He’s discarded the bedcovers as a safety precaution, but the sheets look, if not necessarily acceptable, at least not entirely hazardous to his health, so David sighs, tugs them over his body, and finally allows his shoulders to ease and his eyes to drift shut. He doesn’t sleep, but he tries. He’s trying. 

Two hours later, he’s no closer to losing consciousness; he’s shivering from the draft drifting in from the window to his left, cursing the ambiguous cleanliness of the comforter he’s shoved to the floor, and desperately holding back tears. Thrice now, he has checked his phone. 11PM. 11:45PM. Midnight. No texts. No DMs. No matches. Nothing. Save for his mounting anxieties, he feels completely alone, shivering in the dark like some poor, pitiful Dickens character. 

Out of nowhere, something stirs the air around David’s bed. What sounds like the flaccid burst of two mylar balloons popping cuts through the bleak silence, followed by a throat clearing, and suddenly all the lights are flickering to life around him. Alexis groans and turns in her sleep, unphased. 

David blinks rapidly, pulling his sheets higher over his chin. Hovering above the foot of his bed are two strangers, a man and a woman . . . literally floating. They’re surrounded by an aura of hazy, golden light. David shakes his head. Blinks harder. They’re still there. Still floating. Still glowing.

“What the fuck is happening?” 

“What do you think is happening?” The man asks him, voice pleasant, professional. 

“I’m experiencing a psychotic break?” David offers in response. 

“Doubtful.” 

David sinks further into his pillow. “Okay then. Get the fuck out.” 

The two strangers speak over each other at the same time. “Can’t.” “Nope.” 

David pulls the sheets down, intrigued. “You won’t leave or you can’t leave?” 

“Can’t leave,” the man says. 

“This room?!” 

“Well, the room, yes. The motel, no.” 

“Yup, we’re stuck here. Just like you guys.” The girl chimes in, her voice filled with mock cheer. She elbows her glowing partner.

He sighs in return. “It’s unfortunate.”

David nods in understanding and then shakes himself. He covers his face with his hands and mumbles, “My god, I’m feeling empathy for a glowing hallucination. What is my life?” 

“Well, you have a life at least. That must be nice,” the man says with an ironic smile.   
“And you’re not hallucinating. You’re being haunted.” 

“Haunted?” David practically shouts.

“Yup. We’re ghosts.” 

“Ghosts?!” 

“Am I not speaking loud enough? I could yell,” the girl says, looking at the man with a shrug before turning back to David and shouting, “WE’RE—”

“Oh my god. No! Stop. Stop talking!” David throws the pillow over his face, hoping for death. 

“Sorry.” He hears the man say and David pulls the pillow off his face, scrutinizing the depth of his contrition with narrowed eyes.   
  
The girl leans over and punches the man in the shoulder. “Don’t apologize, he’s being a dick.” 

“I’m being a dick!? Excuse me, but you’re the one who’s . . ." his voice trails off as he flails his arms, “. . . haunting me! Apparently!” 

“Well, yeah.” The girl shrugs again—it seems to be her only indicator of emotion. “‘Cause you’re being a dick.” 

David considers her for a moment. “I think you’re rude.” 

She smirks at him. “Thanks.” 

David fights a bemused grin from appearing on his face. 

“Ew, David. Stop flirting.” 

David snaps his head in Alexis’ direction. “You’re supposed to be asleep!” 

“Whatever. I got bored.” 

“Of sleeping!?” 

“Yes,” she hisses and sits up. She shoves her pillow behind her and leans against the headboard, eyes narrowing at the man across the room. 

He hesitates before asking, “Can I . . . help you with something?” 

She considers him, head tilting to the side before shaking it, having come to some sort of conclusion. “Hmm. Nope.” 

“'Kay.” 

She nods at him, plucks her phone off the nightstand, and is fully engrossed within seconds. 

“That’s David,” she says, tossing a limp wrist out in David’s direction while still looking down at the screen. “I’m Alexis Rose. And you two glowing phantoms of the spirit world would be?” she asks, looking up with raised eyebrows and locking eyes with the girl and man in turn. 

The girl blinks at her. “Uh. Stevie Budd. I run this motel.” 

“Then who was that unfortunate mullet man who checked us in?” 

“Roland.” 

Alexis accepts this fact as if it were new information, despite having been introduced to Roland Schitt that afternoon as the mayor of the town, and moves on. “And you?” 

“Patrick.” The man says, clearing his throat. “Patrick Brewer.” 

“Hmm. Well! Isn’t that just cozy,” Alexis exclaims with a shimmy of her shoulders and then returns to her phone. David stares at his sister, utterly confounded by her. A painful ten seconds pass as she snorts at whatever she sees on her screen while scrolling and David shakes his head, forcing himself into action. He breaks the strange silence by sitting up in bed and shoving on his Uggs. 

“Great. Well, this has been a blast but I think it’s time you both leave,” he says as he stands and gestures to the door with a sweep of his arm. 

The girl, Stevie, grins at him. It is not a pleasant grin. “What makes you think we need a door to leave the room?” 

David steps back in shock, his hands held close to his chest. “Don’t you?” 

Steve’s grin widens as she slowly starts to fade before his eyes into nothing but a gauzy wisp of smoke. It drifts towards him. He ducks out of its path, arms flailing before stumbling into the man in the process. To his horror (and baffling relief) he doesn’t fall straight through him but actually collides with his fully corporeal form. 

“Oh my god, you’re . . . you’re . . .” David grabs onto the man’s, Patrick’s, arms for balance, surprised by the solid muscle he feels beneath the cheap cotton-poly blend. 

Patrick chuckles. It’s a bashful sound. “Yeah. You can touch us.” 

“Ew.” 

Patrick raises an eyebrow at David, his face reading amused as opposed to offended. “Ew?” 

David steps back and folds his arms across his chest. “Whatever. This is all a bit much, okay?” 

“I totally get that, David. It was a shock for me too when I woke up one day . . . not, um, alive.”  
  
David nods, disturbed into agreement. “Sounds very dark.” 

Patrick laughs again. “Yeah. Not my best day.” 

“I would think not.” 

David takes a moment then to truly look at the man named Patrick Brewer standing before him. His eyes are large and wide and dark. Earnest, David thinks. Innocent. Like a fawn. His face is round and pleasant. He looks so normal to David and yet, he’s surrounded by a soft glow of slightly opaque light and he hovers just an inch or so above the ground. Yesterday, David had an apartment in Manhattan with every possible recreational drug one could want to take a trip like the one this figment’s presence is providing him with now. Except, unfortunately, there’s no drug that has caused this surreality. David is penniless and pathetic, living in a shared motel room with his sister and being haunted by a man in midrange denim and his creepy, plaid-clad pixie friend who just exited the room via the air vent beside the television stand. 

“How is this even happening?” he whispers to himself, staring off into the middle distance. 

  
“Dunno. But we think it has something to do with Stevie’s great aunt. She passed a few months back and—” 

  
David shakes his head, turning back to Patrick. “What?” 

  
“Oh, you were being rhetorical just now?”  
  
“Yes,” he snaps.

  
“Sorry.” 

  
“Stop apologizing! God.” 

  
Patrick runs a hand through his too-short hair. “Can’t really help my habits, David.”  
  
David stomps his foot and throws his head back. “That’s fine!”  
  
“Good.” 

  
“Good!” David repeats. 

  
Patrick grins. “This is going well.”

“You think?” 

“I do.” 

Patrick’s grin widens and David shakes himself, hoping to rid his face of readable emotion, and tucks his chin into his shoulder. 

“Oooooo, Da-vid!” 

They both turn to regard Alexis. She’s no longer on her phone. Instead, she sitting cross-legged with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, smiling like an idiot at the pair of them. 

“What?” David mouths.

She squeezes her eyes closed and wiggles with some sort of elated joy that David finds very disturbing under the circumstances. Nothing about this situation should cause his sister to be that happy. 

“What?!” he repeats. 

“Oh, nothing.” 

Patrick chooses that moment to pipe in. “I’m gonna go.” 

“Thank god!” David shouts. Then immediately regrets his outburst from the sight of Patrick’s doe eyes looking at him with disappointment like some sad, abandoned puppy. He shouldn’t give two shits about what this ghost-man thinks of him but despite years of therapy he still cares entirely too much about other people’s opinions for those big brown eyes not to affect him. Apparently, David’s self-esteem is low enough to include ghosts on the ‘ _please like me!_ ’ list in his mind. 

David swallows and takes a deep breath. “I didn’t mean—listen, this is a lot to take in right now. And I’m trying . . . to process . . . but it’s a lot.” 

Patrick nods. “I get it, David.” 

“Do you?” 

Patrick nods again, stepping back towards the motel room’s only closet. 

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“Away. For now.” 

“Yes, but into the closet!?” 

Patrick chuckles and shrugs. “Apparently.” 

David and Alexis watch as Patrick’s solid form dissipates slowly before their eyes as he backs up towards the closet doors and then through them. 

“Ew!” Alexis says, turning to David and finally _(finally!)_ looking concerned for their bizarre situation. “What if his smoke essence or whatever gets on my clothes?” 

David rolls his eyes. _“That’s_ what you’re worried about?” 

Alexis throws her hands up and flings herself back under the covers. “Ugh!” 

“Well, _ugh_ right back at you!” 

“Shut up, David.”

“You Shut up!” 

“No you!” 

“Kids! Could you keep it down,” their father calls from the other room and David spins on the spot and stares at their adjoining door in utter betrayal. 

“What the fuck is my life?!” he says before kicking off his boots, pairing them neatly together, placing them adjacent to the bed, and crawling under the rough, cotton sheets once more. His phone reads 12:13AM. 

“Fuck!” 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

David pushes through the door of the motel’s lobby, feeling the heavy wood rasp over the threadbare welcome mat at his feet. He looks down at the coarse, dusty fibers that just barely spell out the gruesomely ironic words of _Home Sweet Home_ worn thin by years of abuse. 

David finds himself relating to the welcome mat and he wants to cry. Again. 

“Can I help you?” 

He looks up, biting hard on his bottom lip and spots the glowing form of Stevie behind the lobby desk. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Question.” He walks forward, gesturing to how she’s hovering just-so above the chair she’s supposed to be sitting on. “What’s with all this? The floating.”

She blinks back at him. Unmoved by his curiosity. “Are you serious?”

He hesitates before nodding slowly. “Yes.” 

“Well. I’m dead.”

“I spotted that, yes.”

“Therefore, I hover.”

David squints at her, internalizing that information. “Is that like a hard and fast rule for ghosts, or…?”

“Can I help you?” Stevie repeats, her face void of emotion. 

David is wholly envious of that ability. _How do her eyebrows never move_ , he wonders. Is that a 

ghost thing or is that an ability unique to her? 

The surprisingly dulcet sounds of Seal’s singing voice float down from the stairwell behind David, interrupting his train of thought, and he turns, frowning. 

_“...There used to be a greying tower alone on the sea_

_You became the light on the dark side of me…”_

“Where’s that coming from?” he asks. 

“Upstairs.” Stevie offers. Which, obviously. 

“M’kay. Why?” 

“The lawyer’s baking.” 

“The lawyer?” He turns back to her. 

“Yup. The lawyer.” 

“You have a lawyer on retainer.” 

“She’s not mine. She’s just a lawyer.”

David shakes his head and shuts his eyes, attempting to regroup. “Okay. None of this is making any sense.” 

“She bakes.”

He blinks at her. “Is that supposed to be helpful information?”

“She plays that song and bakes.” 

“Yeah, I don’t know what that means.” 

“Where do you think the cinnamon buns came from?” Stevie asks, pointing to the oversized cookie tin on the coffee table. David spins on the spot. 

“Cinnamon buns?!”

“Yeah. They’re supposedly good.” 

He looks back over his shoulder at her, smirking. “Oh, I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.” He peeks into the tin and selects the largest option from its internal offerings. At the first bite he has to hold back a moan. “My god.” 

“Yup.” 

“The lawyer bakes these?” 

“While listening to Seal, yes.”

That last detail is rather curious. “‘Kay. But why?”

“Well, she’s stuck here. Just like me and Patrick.”

David swallows hard and turns his eyes towards the delicious confection in his hands, feeling betrayed. “You mean . . . “ 

“She’s a ghost, too.” 

“Ew!” 

Stevie frowns at him. “It’s not like it’s contagious.”

“How do you know?” he snaps, stepping back from the coffee table but unable to put down the bun.

“Because I know.” 

“Why don’t you just get your complimentary morning pastries for your guests from a bakery like a normal concierge!?” 

“Seriously? That’s what you’ve taken from this conversation?”

“Yes! Pastry is important. I have a shirt that says as much in French. Well, at least I think it says it in French, I really was just flirting with the shop assistant when I purchased. . . ” David trails off at the sight of Stevie's nonplussed expression. 

“The lawyer likes to bake,” Stevie repeats as if she's speaking to a distracted child. 

“But . . . just . . .” he stares at his cinnamon bun, torn between wanting to keep savoring the sweet pastry and wanting to throw it into the nearest bin. “A bakery—"

“This town doesn’t have a bakery.”

David whimpers and tilts his head towards the ceiling. “How is this my life?” 

“Oh, hey. Looks like you’ve found the cinnamon buns.”

David jumps a mile and clutches his pastry to his chest. “My god! Announce yourself, won’t you!” 

Patrick shoves his hands into his pockets, and once again, looks bashful. David wants to flick his ear as punishment for being so damn earnest. Patrick opens his mouth to respond and David knows what he’s about to say before he even utters the first syllable. 

“Don’t even…” he whispers, mimicking pulling a zipper across Patrick’s lips. Patrick’s eyes widen but he listens and doesn’t apologize. David nods and steps back from Patrick, heading for the door. 

“It’s been a treat,” he says to Stevie and she smirks at him as he turns to exit. 

“Bye, David,” Patrick calls just as David is shutting the door. 

“M’bye!” He shouts back and then hates himself a little. 

The cinnamon bun still rests in his right hand, sticky and sweet and looking perfectly innocent to David. He didn’t die from the first bite. Another probably won’t kill him. He shoves the majority of the pastry in his mouth and slinks off to his room, feeling oddly better than he had when he’d woken that morning. It’s only when he shuts the door closed behind him that he realizes he’d forgotten to ask for an extra towel. He drops his head back against the door jam and sighs. 

“Fuck.” 

“Ooo-David! Where’d you get that?”

“Huh?”

Alexis points to what’s left of the pastry in his hand. 

“Oh, there’s cinnamon buns in the lobby.”

“What?” Their mother says, appearing from the adjoining room with a flourish as if she were answering a curtain call. Her glazed eyes are the size of saucers. 

“They’re in the lobby," David repeats. 

“John! Did you hear that! Perhaps a warmed cinnamon confection will help cheer us out of the disastrous doldrums in which we have found ourselves.” 

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” their father answers, consoling as ever. 

David takes the last bite of his pastry, feeling the brown sugar crystals in the icing burst across his tongue. He’s sucking the last bit of sweetness from his fingers when he hears Alexis groan, “ew, David!” 

He flails. “What? Can I not take a moment to myself?” 

“Woof. No. Go. Outside.” She shoos him with her limp wrists, and he goes, too offended to argue. “And get me one of those cinnamon things while you’re out!” she shouts as he slams the door behind him. How is it that he’s just been kicked out of his own room and yet he’s also in charge of procuring his sister breakfast? 

“Fuck that,” he says and stalks off down the walkway. 

The door to room three has been left open and he glances in as he passes. A flash of golden light catches his eye and he skids to a stop, and backs up, staring into the room. Sure enough, there’s Patrick, hovering just-so above the double bed with a laptop perched over his crossed legs. His round face is turned down in concentration, his light eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. David folds his arms and watches for a moment. 

“Like what you see?” asks someone to his left. 

For the second time that morning, David jumps a mile out of his skin. “Oh. My god! Stop doing that!” 

“Stop what?” Stevie asks. 

“Appearing! Out of thin air!” 

“Well, you didn’t like that balloon popping sound, so,” she shrugs. As if that explains everything. 

“The what?” 

“The popping sound.” 

“What about it?” 

“I dunno. It seemed like you didn’t like it.” 

“And how do you come to that conclusion?” 

“Is there a reason you’re having this conversation in front of my door?” Patrick interrupts them. He’s put his laptop aside on the bed and has folded his hands in his lap, looking as pleasant and collected as ever. David envies him. Then hates himself for envying a ghost. 

“We’re not,” he says to Patrick. 

“Oh, you’re not speaking loudly? In front of my door. While I’m trying to work. That’s what you’re _not_ doing?” 

David takes a step back and tilts his head in Patrick’s direction. “Okay, now I think _you’re_ the rude one.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yes. I do.” 

Patrick nods at him, mouth pulling at a smile. “Well, like Stevie, I’ll take that as a compliment coming from you.” 

David turns from Patrick to Stevie and back to Patrick, his mouth ajar in shock. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?” 

Beside him, Stevie snorts. David turns on her. “What?”

“Nothing.” 

“No, tell me!” 

Stevie looks to Patrick in the room. They share a silent communication that is extremely offensive to David. Mostly because he hates being left out of things, especially when they pertain to him. He takes another step back, hands raising. 

“Okay, whatever this,” he gesticulates wildly at them both, “is . . . is something I don’t want to be apart of. So I’m leaving.” 

“Bye, David,” Stevie says, waving cheerily. David just grimaces at her and heads off down the road. Perhaps that weird girl at the café will make him a smoothie. He could use a laxative right about now.

. . . 

  
  


That first week, the Roses write off as a novelty. They’d drastically dropped down the social ladder, had moved to a new town, and were left practically penniless. Realizing that ghosts exist and that the motel they were forced to live in was haunted by them didn’t come as much of a shock following the uprooting of their entire way of life. After several weeks, however, it’s begun to dawn on the entire Rose family how odd it is to be sharing their new lives with three ghosts tethered to the motel by some strange unknown force, one of which they’ve yet to meet but continues to bake them morning pastries and listen to the _Batman Forever_ soundtrack on loop. 

_“... Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey  
_ _Ooh, the more I get of you, the stranger it feels, yeah  
_ _Now that your rose is in bloom…”_

David’s been sitting in the lobby of the motel, mouthing the lyrics to himself for the last two repeats of the song as he scrolls his eBay page, his frustration mounting. 

“You look chipper,” Stevie says as she appears in front of the coffee bar. 

“Eat glass.” David snaps.

“Ooo, so we’re in a good mood today.” 

“The best fucking mood,” he grins at her like a psychotic shark.

“What’s up?” 

David scrubs his hands over his face. “This was a stupid idea.” 

“What idea?” 

“Your idea! About the clothes!” 

Stevie nods and rounds the desk, hovering next to David’s elbow. On the screen shows a positive high bid in bold green font, meaning David made a successful sale on his one-of-a-kind drop crotch, certified fair-trade, handspun, Tunisian silk McQueen slacks. 

“I’m confused. It looks like you sold them.” 

“I did!” 

“And that’s bad . . . because?” 

David rounds on her. “Because the stupid woman who bought them is refusing to pay!” 

“Oh.” 

“Yes. _Oh_.” He bangs his hand down onto the desk and immediately regrets doing so. “Ow.”

Stevie awkwardly pats his hand. “There. There.” 

David stands and shoves back and out from behind the desk. “I hate this.” 

The sound of a balloon popping echos out beside him. “Hate what?” 

It takes everything inside of David not to scream at Patrick for his constant appearances. At least he announces himself by making that idiotic balloon popping sound now, unlike Stevie. Instead of snapping, David takes a deep breath and gestures to the computer, focusing all his energy at something that won’t look at him with sad puppy dog eyes if he yells. “That woman!” 

Patrick frowns. “Stevie?” 

“No! Dammit.” David spins away from them both, feeling too emotionally charged to deal with being polite. He flees upstairs, heading directly to the source of the baked goods. He needs a damn pastry. 

Patrick turns to Stevie. “Is he allowed up there?” 

Stevie shrugs. “Apparently.” 

Two point five hours later, David descends with a tray of pastries and a dopey smile on his face. “ _I’ve . . . been . . . kissed by a rose!_ ” he sings. “I am a Rose!” 

“Hello again.” 

“Hello you,” he sings to Patrick, smiling pleasantly. Patrick is always so pleasant. David should be more pleasant. 

Stevie narrows her eyes at him. “What kind of pastries are those?” 

“The kind that get you high,” David exclaims, elated. 

It’s Stevie’s turn to curse. “Fuck.” 

David tilts his head. “What?” 

“Well, it’s not like I can have any, can I?” 

“Oh. Right.” Along with the unknown force that keeps the ghostly trio tethered to the motel, there is the added caveat that none of them can eat or drink. They just remain as they are, frozen in time. David looks down at his tray, saddened. He wanted to share with his friends. At least, he thinks of Patrick and Stevie as his friends. He hopes they’re friends. 

“Are you my friends?” he asks and Patrick’s eyes go wide. 

“David, how high are you?” 

“What?! I’m thirsty! I mean fine.” 

Patrick smiles at him and David, so help him, feels his cheeks burn. Sirens go off in his brain but his mouth ignores them and instead says, “I may need your professional assistance. With . . . something.” 

Patrick takes a moment and then nods. “Sure. With what?” 

“My store.” 

“Store?” 

“Online. My online store. Shop. Thing.” David gesticulates with his free hand, twirling it through the air, hoping to land on the right word. “eBay is awful. I need a . . . a page. A website. A brand. An immersive experience.”

“Loving these buzzwords.” 

“Buzzzzzz,” David hisses back at Patrick and then giggles. 

Patrick flattens his lips, trying not to smile. David wishes he would smile though. He has a lovely smile. 

“You should smile more, Patrick.”

Patrick looks surprised for a split second before he does exactly what David told him to, he smiles. He lights up. He’s fucking glowing so bright David can’t handle it and has to blink through the blinding light before him. All of a sudden there’s a crack of thunder that rings through the lobby, rattling the windows, and Patrick is gone. Dust motes drift softly to the floor where he once hovered. 

“What the…” David turns to Stevie. “Did he just . . . apparate?” 

Patrick blinks back into existence a moment later, looking bewildered. David clutches a hand to his chest and stares down at the tray he’d placed on the coffee table. He takes a measured step back from it, no longer trusting the lawyer’s pastries. 

“What just happened?”

Patrick shakes his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “No idea.” 

“I have an idea,” Stevie says from behind the desk. 

“Really, Stevie. You do?” Patrick says, eyes intent on hers. David watches as they have another silent conversation, clearly meant to exclude him, and throws his hands in the air. 

“Stop doing that!” 

“Doing what?” Stevie asks. 

David is too high to bother with stomping his foot. He doesn’t want to stomp or whine. What a childlike habit that is, anyway. Instead, he huffs and walks towards the door, indulging in the sentimental urge he has to pat Patrick on the head as he goes. If he hears Stevie snort at him from behind the desk as he shuts the door behind him, so be it. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recently, I binged all of the ‘Inside Schitt’s Creek’ webisodes thanks to @bird-lady on tumblr and discovered that there actually IS a bakery in town: Pat’s Bakery. Now, I don’t know who Pat is but just for the sake of this little journey that we’re all taking part in, Pat and their baked goods do not exist and if they did, their cinnamon buns would not be worthy of Stevie Budd’s motel lobby. No sir. Nope. Kay. Thanks for listening to my Ted talk. Till next time, frans. Ciao.
> 
> p.s. Come follow me on tumblr if you feel so inclined: zigster-ao3


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

  
“You need to land on a color here, David. Just one.” 

“No.” 

“Please?” Patrick looks at him with his puppy-dog eyes. 

“Seriously. No.” David wags a finger at him. “That is beneath you.”

“Actually, contemplating the difference between _Alabaster_ and _Egyptian Stone_ for the better part   
of an hour feels beneath me much more than begging.”

David leans back from the table, affronted. “How dare!” 

“It’s just the background! It’s bright. It’s inviting. That’s what you wanted, right?” 

“Yes, but this color needs to be welcoming no matter the circumstance. Depending on the screen one views the site on, tonal and value shifts will occur. It must be pleasing to the eye on a subconscious level.” 

“I feel pleased looking at both of these. Extremely pleased. The most pleased.” 

David just side-eyes him. 

Patrick relents. “Fine.” David watches at Patrick’s shoulders slump an infinitesimal amount as he begins to type more code onto his laptop’s keyboard. 

The two of them have been working on the coding for David’s online shop for two weeks straight. It’s practically perfect in every way and mostly set to launch except for the final few pieces of the puzzle that David is reticent to solve. He’s also pretty sure that Patrick is starting to catch on, which is making him more anxious than usual. 

Pushing back from the small table in his and his sister’s shared room, David announces, “Coffee break,” and makes his way towards the door. 

“Wait, what? Now?” 

“Yup.” 

“But it felt like you were just about to decide—”

“Yes, I was. And now I want coffee.” 

Patrick’s jaw clenches as he runs a hand through his hair in an obvious attempt at calming his frustrations. David quirks an eyebrow at him. Every once in awhile it hits David just how patient Patrick is with him. Much more so than any of his family members, or Stevie for that matter. They always snap and quip and lob right back whatever David serves them, but Patrick is much more reluctant to even lose his temper around David. He’ll tease him, sure, but that’s all. David finds this fact ever so curious, and there’s a small part of his emotionally-stunted psychology that wants to push Patrick to the edge, just to see how much the man can take. So far, it’s been quite a lot. 

“I’ll bring you back a tea,” David says, patting his shoulder as if that’s sufficient enough an apology for his flighty behavior. 

“I can’t drink tea.” 

“Yes, but you enjoy the smell of bergamot.” 

Patrick turns, his mouth open as if he’s about to speak but nothing comes. David waits for a moment before asking, “What?” 

“You . . . “ 

“I . . . ?” 

Patrick shakes his head and laughs to himself. “Nothing, David. Thank you for the thought. I appreciate it.” 

Preening, David manages a small, “you’re welcome,” before he’s rushing out the door, in need of space and ghost-free air. 

Alas, to no avail, Stevie is standing just outside, grinning at him. And despite her impressive bone structure, and blemish-free alabaster skin, it’s terrifying.

“My god,” David says, closing his eyes. (He makes a mental note to choose the _Alabaster_ background when he gets back.)

“Nice to see you too,” she quips. 

“Well, naturally. I’m a treat.” 

“Likewise,” Stevie deadpans, gesturing to her ever-present plaid and jean motif. 

David smiles at her. “Sure.” 

He moves off the walkway towards the road, putting on his sunnies as he goes. “Gotta run. Coffee and tea await.” 

“Tea?” 

“Yes, tea,” he says. 

“For whom are you getting tea?” 

Stevie had been following him to the grassy edge of the motel’s lawn but stops right before the gravel drive.

“Patrick. I’m getting tea for Patrick,” David refuses to turn around and give Stevie the satisfaction of being able to read his face. 

“Uh huh. That’s awfully nice of you considering we can’t drink tea. Or anything, for that matter.” 

“I know!” 

Stevie waits a beat before saying, “Wow, you’ve got it bad.” 

“I can’t hear you, I’m too far away now.” 

Stevie snorts. “This must really be rock bottom for you, huh?” 

David spins around, “Of course it is!” he snaps, wondering why today of all days is the day Stevie decides to be a little B about things. Do ghosts have menstrual cycles? Perhaps just phantom PMS? Then it hits David to consider what the hell is she even talking about?

“Wait, what do you mean by ‘rock bottom’ because I thought you meant this town but clearly there’s something else . . . ?” 

Stevie just points at the door to his room. 

“I’m not following.” 

“Do I have to explain everything?” Stevie says with a huff. 

David grimaces. Her frustration is compounding his own. “Apparently!” 

“You two spend all your time together.” 

“So?” 

“He does anything you ask of him.”

“Your point?!” 

Stevie shoves her hands on her hips and says, “You’re together! You’re basically dating a ghost.”

“We’re not dating!” David bites out and then reins it in because there was clearly too much emotion behind those words for his liking. 

“Regardless of which,” he continues in a much softer tone, “I once dated a man who literally identified as Count Dracula, slept in a silk-lined coffin and drank pig’s blood, so. . .” 

“Pig’s blood?” 

David nods. “Every meal.” 

Stevie’s eyes widen in disbelief, her hands falling from her waist. “Is he alive still?” 

“Probably not. Anyway. My point! A ghost is far from rock bottom.” 

A moment passes as they stare at each other. Stevie’s expression has taken on a softness that David has rarely seen grace her sharp features. He can’t help but smile at the novelty of such a reaction from her. 

“Why would you say something like that anyway?” He asks, feeling drawn to her melancholy and wanting to extinguish it. “You’re a ghost.” 

At this, Stevie turns, hiding behind the curtain of her dark hair. “Yeah, I know.” She sounds bitter. 

David steps closer. “Stevie?” 

“He’s lucky.” She says, abrupt and determined. 

“Okay, you’re really blowing this outta proportion. We’re just—” 

“I’m not,” she interrupts. “And he is. Lucky.” 

Before David can pry further Stevie disappears into a wisp of summer wind. It ruffles David’s hair and he runs his fingers through it, putting it back in to place. 

“What the fuck?” he whispers to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been super eager to post these first few chapters for you all this week, and I'm THRILLED at the response, thank you guys, but just as a heads up, from here on out I'll probably *try* to stick to a weekly posting schedule. I've got a bunch written for this story and a clear ending ready but I want to make sure I don't leave any of you hanging for too long with updates. Thanks for reading! I hope you continue to enjoy this insanity as we chug along.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

“She’s not jealous.” 

David frowns. “Okay, could we not be so definitive with that statement, please? I do have some pride.” 

The lawyer looks at him through a sheet of puff pastry dough that is apparently at the ideal stage of when one can read a newspaper through it (whatever that means) and is ready to be formed into a long roll that will eventually somehow become strudel. To be honest, David is only half-listening to her speak, he’s much more interested in eating said strudel than learning how it’s made.

“Well, you’re moping. I figured you’d want to know that your friend isn’t, in fact, pining for you.” 

“Are we sure though?” David asks, head tilting to the side in inquiry. 

“I’m sure.” 

“Okay!” David says, standing from the kitchen table. “Fine. She’s not jealous. So why the sudden emotional upheaval then?” 

The lawyer shrugs a very slim, chiffon-covered shoulder. “She cares.” 

“That’s what I’m saying!” 

“About Patrick,” the lawyer continues, unphased by his outburst. 

“Oh.” David sits back down, flummoxed. He considers the lawyer for a moment as he contemplates the strange triangle of a social scenario he’s fallen into with two ghosts he’s allowed himself to get close to and now he’s willingly spending time with a third. What is his life? 

“How are you a part of this insanity?” 

“Pardon?” she asks, not looking up from her pastry roll. 

“How is it you’re stuck here? With them.” 

“Stevie didn’t tell you?” 

David’s interest skyrockets along with his right eyebrow. He leans forward in his chair. “No,” he drawls. “But I’m listening.” 

The lawyer appears torn for a moment before wiping her hands on her incongruous apron covered in knitted kittens and steps around the small kitchen island she’d been working on, walks to the stove and puts on the kettle. David wonders about that, but doesn’t ask. The lawyer explains regardless by saying, “force of habit,” as she sits down across from him at the table. 

“What do you know about our situation?” 

David blinks at her. “Uh, you haunt the motel.” 

“Yes. And why do we haunt the motel?” 

“Because you can’t leave the motel.” 

“Mmhmm, and why can’t we leave the motel?” 

David huffs and flings his arm out to encompass the entirety of the room. “I don’t know, you enjoy it here?” 

“Do _you_ enjoy it here?” 

Covering his face with his hands, David laments, “Oh my god, forget it. I’m over it.” 

“Too late,” the lawyer replies, sounding amused. “You asked.” 

“Yes. And I’m regretting it immensely.” 

“But you’re curious. That’s a good thing.” 

“Okay, who even are you?” 

“No one. Just the lawyer who handed Stevie the deed to the motel the day all three of us became ensnared by the chains in which we now find ourselves so unpleasantly bound.” 

“My god. Have you been spending time with my mother?” 

To David’s shock, the lawyer smiles in the affirmative. “She loves a good pecan pie, your mum. She and your father often take their lunches up here. Haven’t you noticed?”

“No! I most definitely have not noticed,” he says, and then grimaces. 

The lawyer folds her arms across her chest. “And how does that make you feel?” 

David struggles for several agonizing seconds before shouting, “Guilty, okay!” 

“Mmmhmm.” She nods. 

“Listen, I’ve had plenty of therapists. I don’t need another.” 

“Of course.” 

“I just didn’t realize . . . “

The lawyer coughs out a delicate laugh, cutting off David's fumbling response. “You actually thought you were the only one who came to visit me?” 

To his unfathomable shock, he actually had thought that. He thought he was oddly special or something since he never saw Stevie or Patrick up here. Nor did he ever see the lawyer downstairs. He often wondered where she was getting all that butter and flour from but was never fully invested enough to actually source out an explanation. 

He’s certainly invested now. Not about the butter. Well, he’s _always_ invested when it comes to butter, but still, he’s more interested in what the lawyer was talking about before her tactless reminder that he was, in fact, not special. 

“Where is the deed now?” he asks. 

The lawyer smiles at him. “I’m not sure. Perhaps you should ask Stevie.” 

David slumps. “She’s avoiding me.” 

“Is she?” 

“Yes! And I thought she was jealous, or something, but you shot that idea down the moment I mentioned it—“ 

“Because she isn’t jealous.” 

“I know that now!” 

“Good.” 

“Ugh!” David shakes his head and regroups. “Anyway. I’m giving her space. I can’t ask her about the deed.” 

The lawyer stands from the table and sighs, “That’s too bad.” 

David watches as she walks to the stove to take off the whistling kettle and pours herself a cup of tea. She holds it aloft in her glowing hands and takes in the rich earthy scent of a proper Oolong with deep, long inhales. David finds himself fascinated by this practice. He’s seen Patrick do the same to a cup of Earl Grey just the day before. And the day before that, and the day before that. . . 

“You miss it, huh?”

The lawyer raises an eyebrow. “If you mean being alive, I find it insulting that you’d even ask.” 

David shrinks back. “Ouch.”

She shrugs her slender shoulder again and turns back to the pastry. David finds her effortlessly chic, like Audrey Hepburn who happens to be headlining a farce and still brings the entire production an exasperating amount of grace. (No wonder his mother willingly spends time with her.) David knows an apology would be both considerate and appropriate for this tense moment he’s created for them, but one doesn’t seem to be forthcoming, unfortunately.

“Would Patrick know?” he asks instead. 

Another shrug. It seems the lawyer has come to the end of her patience with David and has refocused all her attention on the cinnamon and nut mixture she’s adding to the pastry. David eyes the concoction with the kind of yearning young ingénues project onto their heroic saviours in romance novels. 

“It’s time to go now,” the lawyer says, unprompted.

David starts. “Oh.” 

“Pip. pip.” 

“Pip?” he repeats, baffled, but stands nonetheless walking swiftly towards the stairwell. 

“Talk to Stevie,” she says, eyeing him over her strudel roll. “Apologies aren’t that difficult.” 

David lifts his chin in thought, wondering if ghosts can possess other supernatural abilities besides glowing and floating, like mind-reading. 

"Do I really need to apologize though? I mean, since I didn't even know what she—"

“You’re stalling.” 

“I’m going!” David says, shuffling awkwardly backward. “I’m going.” 

“À bientôt!” The lawyer twiddles her flour-covered fingers at him. He grimaces because _ugh!_ of course, she speaks French. So chic. 

. . . 

David doesn’t talk to Stevie. Instead, he finds Patrick loitering outside his door with a bag of what smells like fried food. David stares down at the bag with a questioning look. 

“I had it delivered. Thought you might be hungry,” Patrick offers, holding the bag aloft. David snatches it and peeks inside. 

“What makes you think that? And thank you,” he says, nodding as he inserts his key into the lock and twists the knob. He steps over the threshold and looks over his shoulder, only to find Patrick still sitting-hovering in the chair out front. “Coming in? If you stay there long enough you’ll attract moths and I can’t have that.”

Patrick jumps up and grins. “If you insist.” 

David huffs. “I mean . . . “ and then trails off because he really would like some company. Even if he does hate eating by himself in front of other people. 

Just because he allows Patrick into the room with his puppy dog eyes full of earnest innocence and his doggy bag full of fried goodness doesn’t mean David is able to sit right down and indulge. He _is_ hungry, and the lawyer, unfortunately, shooed him away before he could snag a delectable confection, so Patrick’s timing truly is perfection, but he’s too anxious to sit still. He feels too small for his own skin and simply has to do something . . . productive. 

He ignores Patrick’s bemused expression and shoves and nudges the furniture in his room until he’s convinced the set up will help inspire his creative outflow and balance his chi. What this actually means is that he moves the bed three inches to the left of the window, adjusts the television stand accordingly, and straightens (and dusts) the decor.

“Where did you find a feather duster?” Patrick asks. 

David looks at him, frowning. “We brought it with us.” 

“You had fifteen minutes to pack your personal belongings and you packed a duster?” 

“Yes. Along with a myriad of other cleaning items. What do you take me for?” 

“Someone who’s never had to clean anything a day in his life.” 

David gasps. “I am personally offended by that statement and your tone, sir.” 

Patrick chuckles. “I’ve offended you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Forgive me?” 

David opens his mouth to make a biting comment, but falters, struck by Patrick’s brown eyes looking at him with such sincerity, he almost can’t breathe. David knows behind that mask of disarming remorse is also a hefty dose of Patrick’s ever-present facetious humor but the effect is still the same. He snaps his mouth shut and simply nods, feeling overwhelmed and simultaneously overheated. He tugs at the neck of his sweater. 

“Is it hot in here?” he asks, turning away from Patrick.

“I wouldn’t know.” 

“Huh?” 

“The air temperature doesn’t really affect me, David.” 

“Oh.” Right. _Ghosts._

A thought occurs to David. “Patrick, what do you know about the deed?”

“The deed?”

“To the motel.” 

“Oh,” Patrick nods. 

David bites his lip, nervous. “Yeah.” 

“Have you been talking to the lawyer?” 

Suddenly, David can’t stand it and he throws his hands in the air. “Ugh! She has a name!” 

Patrick leans back, looking surprised. “She told you her name?” 

“Yes!” 

“Huh.” 

“Seriously, why does no one call her by her name?” 

Patrick smiles with a shrug. That seems to be the only answer David is getting and he huffs. “Well, it’s just rude.” 

“Noted.” 

“And yes, I’ve been talking to her.” 

“She told you to talk to Stevie, didn’t she?” Patrick asks, grinning. He’s teasing David. 

David sighs. “Yes.” 

“Then you should probably do that,” Patrick says.

“Should I though?” 

Patrick just shakes his head, smiling all the same.

David hedges, feeling uncertain. “I’ll try.” 

This reluctant declaration is met with such a brilliant smile from Patrick that David is scared he might burst into thin air again. The room feels brighter, but Patrick, thankfully, does not disappear. 

The moment drags out into an awkward yet not wholly unwelcome silence. David is trying his hardest to stand still under Patrick’s unnerving gaze as his smile softens into something David can only describe as _fond_. David doesn’t mind this new expression. David would like to be thought fondly of by someone; by Patrick especially. 

The sound of the door next door closing startles David. The excitable voices of his parents filter through the wall. They’ve just come back from the café, apparently. 

“Well then,” Patrick slaps his hands down into his thighs and stands. It feels definitive to David and he pouts, not wanting Patrick to leave so soon. 

“Enjoy your dinner,” he says as he walks past David, patting his shoulder as he heads towards the door. He pulls it open and steps out before fading into the ether with a final smile. 

David rolls his eyes at the overly dramatic display. “Why open the door if you’re just going to disappear?” 

“For effect,” Patrick whispers, right in David’s ear and he jumps. 

“My god!” 

A warm chuckle echos around the room. It makes the hairs on the back of David’s neck stand on end and he’s up and out the door with the bag of food before the sound of Patrick’s laughter can dissipate into an eerie silence around him. 

“Oooh David! Is that dinner?” Alexis hollers from a distance as she jogs up the gravel drive in her running clothes. 

“Not your dinner!” David shouts and stalks towards the lobby. 

Perhaps he’ll go find Stevie after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to wait a full week but you're getting this a day early. I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> Comments are love! :)


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Most people don’t touch David. This is partially by design, he doesn’t really give off a warm and fuzzy vibe, despite his taste in knitwear. It’s also a direct result of the ‘hands-off’ approach his parents employed with his and his sister’s upbringing. Until recently, the Roses were not what one would consider a close-knit family. 

Patrick, it turns out, isn’t most people. Patrick isn’t even a person, technically, but that’s beside the point. Patrick touches David. Often and on purpose. It’s unsettling. 

Stevie touches David too, though in a hesitant way as if it pains her to make human contact with anyone, let alone him. David relates to this behavior on a deep, spiritual level. It’s why he allows such fleeting affections from her and it never causes his anxiety to spike. 

Patrick, though.

Patrick’s casual nature around David is a _problem_. Mostly because David actually respects Patrick, and enjoys their conversations, his dry wit and relentless teasing, his wholly generic love of sports, and bizarre affinity for musical theatre. The man subscribes to The New Yorker, carries a library card in his wallet, is teaching himself French, and freely admitted to David without provocation (and with a straight face) that he enjoys crossword puzzles. 

Patrick, as a whole, is entirely too endearing and adorable for his own good and David has a major issue on his hands because Stevie was right: he and Patrick do spend most of their free time together and the reason is starting to dawn on David this very moment, as in this _exact and specific_ moment, that holy fuck! he has feelings for a ghost. 

That scene from Clueless where Cher comes to her realization that she’s in love with Josh and the fountain starts to literally ejaculate behind her with appropriate lighting to boot plays in David’s head on a loop and before he knows it, he’s spiraling. 

_Fuck, shit, fuck, shit, fuck, shit, fu—_

“Ugh, David I can like _hear_ your angst all the way over here,” Alexis huffs. She’s buffing her nails at the table with David’s emery board, and despite David experiencing his shocking existential specter crisis, he hopes she cracks a nail, because _how dare_ she use his personal grooming products. 

“Well, fuck you very much,” he says. 

Alexis just stares at him. “David.” 

“Alexis?” 

“David.” 

David shakes his head. “Okay, what are we doing?” 

She widens her eyes at him in frustration. 

“What?!”

“You’re being oblivious, David.” 

David tilts his head at her. “Where did you learn that word?” 

She flaps her wrists. “Don’t be rude. And Mom. Anyway! You totally are.” 

“Totally what?”

“Totally oblivious!”

“I totally. Am not.” 

“Yes. You are.” 

“What are we even talking about?” 

“Patrick, David!” 

That throws David for a loop because he was almost certain she was talking about Stevie. And he was so ready for her to mention Stevie because he’d done a very good job of sitting in the lobby of the motel last night while eating this luke-warm turkey burger and attempting to make conversation. The fact that Stevie only responded with monosyllabic answers and never once looked up from playing solitaire on her computer screen is another matter, but still, he tried. 

He swallows, looking around the room quickly wondering if his earlier thoughts about Patrick had somehow been projected onto the television screen. 

“What about him?” he finally asks, his voice a whisper. 

Alexis gestures with her limp hands to the turquoise wall behind their beds, no doubt indicating the room Patrick resides in, not that David will ever admit he knows what she means. 

“What?” David repeats. 

More gesturing.

“What!?” 

“Ugh!” Alexis stands and smooths the front of her dress before stalking into their parent’s room and slamming the door hard behind her. 

David hears the echo of their mother through the wall, “Alexis! Please forego such bombastic theatrics when exiting your room, no doubt, for dramatic emphasis. Poor Carol almost quit her hook!” 

David stares at the door, taken aback. “What the fuck was that?” 

“You mean your sister’s not-so-subtle attempt to goad you into admitting your feelings for Patrick?” 

David jumps straight out of his Rick Owens shoes before spinning on the spot, hand clutched to his chest. “My god! Where did you come from?” 

“Oh, I’ve been here,” Stevie says with an unflatteringly smug expression. 

“The whole time!?”

“I was out back.” 

“Doing what?” 

“Listening to your conversation.” 

“Through the wall?!” 

Stevie just points. “No. Your window is open.” 

David turns to look, then shakes his head. “You’re such a freak.” 

Stevie beams at him. “Thank you.”

A moment passes between them. It feels heavy, important, like they’ve crossed a bridge together. At least, David hopes they have. 

“So, the fact that you’re here means?” 

“That I’ve forgiven you.” 

David squints, contemplating that statement. “Forgiven? Did I do something that needed forgiving?”

Stevie rolls her eyes. A habit David’s pretty sure she picked up from him. “Weren’t you trying to apologize to me last night for abandoning me because Patrick’s been giving you all his attention and you’ve been lapping it up like a touch-starved animal?” 

Feeling caught, and thoroughly offended but too guilty to admit it, David says, “I mean . . .” he twirls a hand and looks away. “Sure.” 

“Your contrition is astounding.” 

“So is your vocabulary,” David quips.

“Your mother lends me books when she’s done reading them.” 

“Ah,” David says, and he can’t help but smile. 

Stevie doesn’t let the silence linger. She grins and then punches David in the arm, hard. He crumbles on to his bed clutching his bicep in shock. 

“What the…?!” 

Tapping her chin, Stevie muses, “I’m not sure. It just felt right.” 

“I take it back. You’re not a freak. You’re a beast! A menace!” 

“I still take that as a compliment.” 

“My god, I can’t believe I missed you.” 

Stevie stills, looking down at David with that same softness he remembers from when she’d told him that Patrick was lucky to have him. He stares up at her, waiting. 

“You missed me?” She asks. 

David can’t stand all of this emotion. It weighs on the air of the room like a too-thick blanket and he’s suffocating. He stands and paces the floor. “Yes!” 

“Really?” 

He turns to glare at her. “Listen—” 

Stevie cuts him off, “I missed you too.” 

That stops him, his voice caught in his throat. He’s pretty sure his lip is trembling but he’s trying his best to control it. 

Alexis entering the room ruins the moment, but David has never been more thankful for his sister’s presence in his life. He was about to do something wholly uncharacteristic, like hug another human, or ghost, _whatever_. Stevie seems to be equally relieved and steps back, waving. 

“I’ll just—”

“Did you want to stay?” Alexis asks, “We were going to play Boggle.” 

“We?” David repeats.

She shrugs her shoulders at him. “You know, Mom and Dad. You.” 

“Oh.” David looks down at his hands. His emotions have been running entirely too high today for his liking but he wouldn’t mind a game of Boggle to calm his anxieties, or at least redirect them. He’s always been able to beat Alexis, if not his mother. 

“I shouldn’t,” Stevie is saying, interrupting his train of thought. “I’d be the fifth person and that’s an uneven—” 

“No, you should stay,” David says, making the decision for her. “The number of players for ultimate game-play when it comes to Boggle is fluid.” 

“Fluid?” 

“Yup. You’re staying.” He grabs her arm and drags her over to the table, and since she’s a ghost, she just sort of floats along behind him. It’s odd but whatever. Alexis claps her hands, bangles jangling, as their parents walk into the room with a cheese tray and an ice bucket full of beer. 

“Oh, good, Stevie’s here,” their father says, nodding towards her with a smile. “Watch out for Moira. She’s a shark when it comes to Boggle.” 

Moira slaps him in a playfully coquettish way that David would rather not have witnessed first hand. “Now, John. Don’t.” 

“Just making sure Stevie knows what she’s getting into, dear.” They exchange a look and David has had enough. 

“She does,” David says, cutting off whatever strange flirting dynamic his parents were rudely attempting in front of their children. He then claps his hands bringing everyone to attention, “now come on! Let’s do this.” 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

  
David wakes the next day to find Stevie hovering over the foot of his bed, cross-legged, reading a book. 

He shrieks. 

“My god, David! Rude!” Alexis says, throwing an Ugg at him. He shoves it off his bed because ew, shoes are meant to stay on the floor. 

“What are you doing here?” he whispers in horror to Stevie, ignoring his sister. 

Stevie just looks at him. “Am I not allowed to spend time with _my buddy_?” 

David cringes at the word. “Buddy?” 

“Yup. _Buddy_.”

“Okay, please stop saying buddy,” David begs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 

“But you’re my buddy.” 

“Oh my god. Kill me.” 

“Why are you two like this?” Alexis mumbles and turns away from them. “It’s gross.” 

“You’re gross!” David retorts. 

“Whatever.” She’s asleep again within seconds. 

“I like your sister,” Stevie says, staring at the pink quilted lump that is his wretched sibling. 

“Glad one of us does.” 

She grins at him. “You don’t remember last night, do you?” 

Placing a hand to his forehead to stave off the pain, he shakes his head. “Yes, I do.” 

He hears Stevie snort. He opens one eye and glares at her. “That sound is not becoming.” 

“Nor is your hair right now.”

David flails, covering his no doubt train wreck of a hairdo with his pillow. “My god! Please. Leave!” 

“I would never leave my _buddy_ in such a state, though.” 

He flips his pillow down. “Okay, fine! What happened?” 

Stevie shuffles closer, now hovering over his kneecaps as opposed to his feet. “Well, we played Boggle.”

“That much I do remember.” 

“And after two rounds your father procured a joint from his breast pocket.” 

David gasps. “He’ll never get that smell out of his silk pocket square.”

“That’s what your mother said but not the point. Focus. So, you and Alexis were scandalized for about two point five seconds and then, as a family, you all proceeded to get fucking wasted together.” By the end of this declaration, Stevie is beaming. Literally. David has to blink against the brightness. 

“That’s disgusting,” he says, grimacing. 

“It wasn’t, actually. It was . . . nice.” 

“You’re entirely too overjoyed by my pain.” 

“I am.” Her grin widens. David attempts to kick her but she just floats higher into the air. 

He frowns at her and then asks, “I remember wine?” 

Stevie nods. “Your mother had like seven bottles of fruit wine in their room. I think there might be two left? Maybe one.” 

“My god.” 

“You guys made a night of it.” 

“I can’t handle this right now.” David covers his face with his hands and shoves the heel of his palms into his eye sockets. He would kill for a painkiller right now. “How does ‘buddy’ factor into this horror story?” 

“Oh, that’s what you started calling me during the fourth round of Boggle, right before we switched to Cards Against Humanity.” 

A wave of nausea rolls through him. “Ew. We played that with our parents?” 

Stevie nods, looking thrilled. 

“Oh god, I don’t want to know.” 

“You won.” 

“I did?” 

“Yup. Your mother was very proud.”

“It was apparently a ‘binding’ experience, David,” Alexis mumbles from under the duvet. 

“You mean, _bonding_. And ew.” 

“For what it’s worth, I hate endearing situations with a passion, but she’s right,” Stevie adds with a shrug. “You guys bonded. And I’m now your buddy.” 

“Okay,” David shoves back his bedding and this time successfully dislodges Stevie from her cross-legged position above him. He stands and makes a beeline for the bathroom. 

“Do you need any help in there, buddy?” Stevie calls. David slams the door then doubles over because _fuck!_ his head is throbbing. He finds a pain pill in the cabinet and downs it like the lifeline it is and then proceeds to drown himself in the shower for an hour. By the time he emerges from the bathroom he feels only moderately like death. 

He walks to the lobby, sunglasses firmly in place, and is met with Patrick on the couch holding what appears to be a foil-wrapped burrito in his glowing hands. 

“Please tell me that’s for me?” 

“Well, I certainly can’t eat it.”

“You’re a beautiful person,” David says, snatching it from Patrick and turning away from him to sniff deeply at the smell of queso, refried beans, and chipotle peppers. “Are there eggs in here?” 

“Yup.” 

“My god, I could kiss you right now,” David says, fawning over the burrito as he rips into the foil and takes a bite. The light in the lobby doubles in strength and he turns mid-chew. Patrick is looking very, very bright behind the protection of David’s sunnies. _Incandescent_ , David’s brain supplies. And yes, that’s exactly what Patrick is at this moment.

There are prisms of light bouncing off every surface. Full spectrums of color flickering over the dull curtains and shabby tweed of the couch: violet, lapis, green, yellow . . . David has no idea what’s happening but he swallows hastily, not wanting to choke during such an astonishing sight. He’s almost certain he sees a flush rising up Patrick’s neck, a deep pink mingling with the glowing light, complimenting the colors all around them. 

David’s mouth falls open.

“Whoa.” 

The voice comes from their right and David blinks, realizing Stevie is behind the desk. He looks to her for answers. She shrugs, having none. 

The entire experience is ruined when David’s mother bursts in the door, “Stevie! Could I inquire after—” her voice trails off, as the light extinguishes around them just as fast as it came. David feels his shoulders tense in agitation, missing the beautiful display. 

“Oh dear,” his mother says. “What star-crossed moment have I so carelessly trespassed upon?” 

Patrick clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck. “‘Morning, Mrs. Rose. You haven’t trespassed on anything.” 

“Yes, she has!” David snaps. He glares at his mother. How dare she, he was having a _moment_ , dammit. 

“No, it’s fine.” Patrick moves past them quickly, touching David’s wrist as he goes. “Enjoy your breakfast,” he says, soft and sweet and David actually whimpers. 

The door closes behind him and David wants to stomp his foot in frustration. He settles for tossing his head back in an emphatic gesture of disappointment. “I’m going upstairs.” 

“Oh, David. Could you perchance collect a pairing of croissants for your father and me if she’s concocted any today?” 

“No,” he shouts, halfway up the stairwell. 

“Don’t be rude, dear.” 

“ _Ugh!_ ” 

. . . 

David stares down at the leftover wrappings of his burrito resting on the pink Formica tabletop with a resigned sadness. It was a delicious burrito and he wishes he’d savoured its fleeting presence in his life more than he had. He also wishes he’d had some sour cream to top it with but that desire is rather moot now. 

The lawyer is whistling along to Seal as she rolls out some pastry dough on the counter across from him. As far as David is concerned, when it comes to the effortless elegance of this woman, her love of 90s film soundtracks is her only failing. 

“Do you perhaps know why Patrick keeps lighting up like the Rockefeller Christmas tree?” 

The lawyer looks over her shoulder at him. “I beg your pardon?” 

“Patrick. He glows.”

“Well, we all glow.”

“No, he practically set fire to the lobby just now. Except, in a non-violent and fairly Pride-happy way. There were lots of rainbows everywhere.” 

“Rainbows?” 

“Yeah prisms of light. You know.” 

“Do I?” 

“My point is! He seems to glow more brightly than you or Stevie.” 

“Oh, well, I’m flattered.” 

David puts his head in his hands. “I’m not explaining this well.” 

“No, you’re not. But I’m also teasing you.” 

“Thank god.” 

“He likes you, David. A lot. You can’t actually be this obtuse.” 

“I’m not! And don’t be rude.” 

She huffs out a disdainful chuckle but continues. “Then what’s the problem?” 

David flings his arms out in exasperation. “You’re all dead!” 

The lawyer places down her rolling pin and turns to face him. “We are.” 

“That’s a massive problem for me. I may have a list of kinks the size of Jeff Bezos’ yacht but necrophilia will never, ever be one of them.” 

“Well, we’re very much ‘alive’ in the active sense so I don’t think necro—”

“Not the point!” 

She sighs, looking sympathetic and for some reason, this raises David’s hackles more. He despises being pitied. 

“Being dead is a rather large problem for Patrick, Stevie and I, as well,” she says to him, sounding entirely too resigned for David’s liking. 

“Great. We agree. This situation sucks.” 

The lawyer nods. “It does.” 

“How can you be so calm?!”

“Well, as you so eloquently put it, I’m dead, so I really have nothing to worry about anymore.”

“But I don’t want you to be dead.” 

She places a hand to her heart. “I’m touched by that, David.” 

“And I’m frustrated!” 

David stands from the table, needing to move. He spins in a circle, then paces the kitchen. He’s fed up with the complacency of this town and these damn ghosts. They don’t even remember dying! How can they just exist here and not wonder why or how they came to be here? How come they can interact with the people around them, touch things, _bake_ things, but can’t leave the damn property? And why _the-ever-loving-fuck_ does the lawyer keep playing that damn Batman Forever soundtrack on loop!? There are too many questions and not enough fucking answers and David is sick of it. 

“Where’s the deed?” he asks. 

“I told you—”

“No, you didn’t. You said to talk to Stevie.” 

“And have you?” 

“Yes!” 

“About the deed?” 

David pauses, mouth working before he grunts and stalks back to the stairwell. “Fine!” 

“Glad we had this little chat,” the lawyer calls as he stomps downstairs. 

“Fuck off!” 

He hears the lawyer’s responding laugh echo out behind him. When he reaches the lobby, Stevie’s nowhere to be found. He folds his arms and tries to hold in his emotions. It doesn’t work. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David really enjoys saying 'fuck' in this story. I should start taking a tally. 
> 
> Comments are love!


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

David descends the stairs into the lobby with thunderous determination but then skids to an abrupt and startled halt halfway down. There’s a man with an incredibly toned backside, leaning over the desk, chatting and laughing with Stevie. He’s bent so low, his forehead is practically touching hers, as if they’ve created a little bubble of fliration to exist in. David would be amused by such a sight if his best friend didn’t happen to be _dead_. He also very much wants to talk to her _right-the-fuck-now_ so this mountain man in his overwashed plaid and low-rider wranglers needs to turn down the charm before Stevie sets the lobby on fire. 

“Eh-hem,” David coughs into his fist, coming down the final few steps into the room.

Stevie looks up, her mouth forming a surprised little ‘o’ and then grins. “David!” 

David nods. “That’s me.” 

“Yup. Uh, this is Jake.” Stevie introduces them. Jake, with his suntanned face and warm yet vacant expression, shakes David’s hand. His palm is rough, yet pleasantly dry. 

“Nice to meet you, David. Stevie’s told me a lot.” 

“About?” 

“Well, you.” 

David turns to Stevie, head tilting. “I’m sorry, when have you had time to chat with the Marlboro Man? I thought you spent all your free time haunting me?” 

Stevie shrugs. “Not really. You spend all your free time with Patrick.” 

David dismisses that statement. “Oh please, we’ve already had this fight.” 

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” Stevie says, voice low and aimed at the computer screen. 

David is about to respond when Stevie jumps up and rounds the desk to stand in front of them. She’s put her hands on her hips. David eyes this change in body language with suspicion. Hands-on-hips Stevie tends to mean that whatever comes out of her mouth next will be definitive and that there will be no need for David to offer his opinion on the matter. Therefore, this is not David’s favorite posture of Stevie’s. 

“We’re going camping.” 

David shakes his head. “I’m sorry, what? I thought you were going to answer my earlier question of _when did you have time to—_ ”

“You’re invited,” she ploughs on. “Patrick too.” 

Jake is nodding as he leans nonchalant against the desk, one hip cocked. “There’s some really nice country out here. And a lake up near—” 

“Yeah, I’m just going to stop you right there,” David says pulling an imaginary zip across Jake’s mouth and turning away from him. 

“Uh, Stevie, does _Jakie_ here know that you can’t leave the property?” 

“What?” Jake asks, looking perfectly perplexed in the process. Poor man. 

“Yup! They can’t leave. Some sort of voodoo magic binds them to the motel.” David shakes his head with mock sincerity. “So tragic.” 

Jake just frowns at him. “What do you mean?” 

Trying for another approach, David asks, “Do you live in Schitt’s Creek?” 

“Yeah. Born n’ raised.” 

David nods. “Kay. So then you should know about the whole thing with the Motel?” 

Jake smiles and turns to look at Stevie with a fond expression, and despite himself, David is taken aback for a second. It’s sweet, actually, that smile. But there’s no time for that now. He waves his hands in front of Jake, gaining his attention again, and asks, “why would you think she can go camping?” 

This quandary is met with a blank stare. “Huh?” 

David turns back to Stevie. “Okay, he really isn’t getting it. He at least knows you're dead, right?” 

Stevie rolled her eyes. “Stop it, David. I was just about to tell him that the woods out back are part of the property and we could just camp out there.” 

David’s lip curls. “How fun.” 

“So, we can’t go out to the lake?” Jake butts in again. His rugged features are now trying to form themselves into what David considers a sup-par puppy dog face. This man has clearly never met Patrick Brewer. 

“Doesn’t look like it,” David says, smiling at him. 

“There’s a small pond about a half a mile out into the woods.” Stevie offers, looking at Jake with encouragement. David grimaces at her. 

“Nice. So, we’re still on for tonight, then?” 

“Yup!” 

“Great.” Jake looks back and forth between Stevie and David, nodding with a warm smile at them both. “This’ll be good.” 

“I hope so,” Stevie says as she float-walks him to the door. Jake leans down before he exists and brushes the dark curtain of her hair off her cheek. The room brightens along with Stevie’s blush and she shuts the door. 

“Well, well, well—”

“Don’t start!” Stevie spins on the spot, pointing at David. The room feels much darker all of a sudden. 

“What?! I was just going to say—”

“Nothing. You were going to say nothing.” 

Stevie stomps past him and encamps herself behind her desk, booting up Solitaire with vigor. David stands and stares at her, mouth ajar. 

“Can’t I even—” 

“Nope.” 

“But I was just going to—” 

“Shut it.” 

“Stevie—“ 

“No!” 

“ _Ugh!_ ” 

It’s now David’s turn to stomp off in a fit of pique and wrenches open the lobby door only to find Patrick standing just outside. 

“Hello again,” he says with a smile as he steps inside. His smile falters as he takes in the dour, darkened mood of the lobby and then frowns, looking at Stevie behind the desk determinately glaring at her computer screen and then to David who’s grinding his teeth, fists clenched. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” David says, spitting the word at Stevie. 

“Yup. _Nothing_.” 

Patrick sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “What’s happened now?” 

David looks at him, shocked. “What do you mean, ' _what’s happened now?_ 'Are you insinuating that Stevie and I tend to get into heightened spats of emotion often?” 

Patrick doesn’t even blink. “Pretty much, yeah.” 

Stepping back with a hand on his chest, David scoffs. “I am offended, Patrick.” 

This does nothing to disway him. “Poor thing.” 

“Your cheek is not as cute in the morning when I’ve yet to have my coffee.” 

“Oh, you mean, this coffee?” Patrick asks, holding aloft a to-go cup from the café. 

David gasps. 

“Twyla even remembered the cocoa powder sprinkle this time. Unprompted.” Patrick tells him as he hands it over. The cup is blessedly hot still and David takes it into his hands with relish. 

Behind them, Stevie huffs at the computer screen. David chooses to assume she’s lost her round of Solitaire, turns his back to her, and takes a sip. It’s almost decent. He grins at Patrick. First the hang-over burrito, now coffee. Patrick must be racking up quite a bill with food-deliveries. 

“Thank you, Patrick,” David tells him and watches as Patrick glows brighter in front him. David doesn’t shy away from the display this time, he basks in it, allowing the warm light emanating from Patrick’s skin to wash over his own. He feels enveloped and safe and cared for, it’s a startling and beautiful feeling. 

That is until Stevie coughs loudly and David and Patrick blink away the moment and turn to face her. 

“Hi Stevie,” Patrick says, shrugging off the interruption and walking forward to lean against the counter. “What’s up?” 

“I lost.” 

“Oh, well. Gonna play again?” 

“Yup.” 

“That’s good.” 

She nods, not looking at him. “Did David tell you that we’re all going camping tonight?” 

Patrick turns from her, looking to David with raised eyebrows. “No, he did not.” 

“Okay, well I _just_ learned about that myself like two minutes ago, so.” 

“Where are we camping?” Patrick asks. 

“The woods out back,” Stevie says while David grumbles something about, _“the murder woods behind the motel.”_

“Nice! I haven’t camped since I was in college.” 

“Well, bully for you!” David exclaims. 

“Bully?” Patrick repeats, looking highly amused. 

David shakes his head. “Whatever. I have to go prepare for an evening _out of doors_ , apparently, so. I’m off.” 

“I’ll stop by later to fix that glitch on the site,” Patrick says with a small wave and a wink. David blushes, despite himself as he steps outside. 

“Thank you. I look forward to it.” David shuts the door and then scrunches up his face in self-disgust. _“I look forward to it?”_ he parrots back to himself, walking down the sidewalk towards his room. “Could I be more desperate?” 

“Probably, dear,” his mother calls through the open window. David spins on the spot and glares. 

“Ugh! Privacy!” 

His mother laughs. “A luxury we can no longer afford, David. Do catch up.” 

David can’t handle being anywhere near any of the people he calls family or friends a moment longer and stomps off down the gravel drive, his precious Patrick-procured coffee in hand. 

Perhaps he’ll head to the café and thank Twyla for remembering his cocoa sprinkle, or ask Ronnie and her wife about camping. They have an outdoor grill, surely that means they enjoy time outside enough to have experience with such boggling recreations as sleeping on the ground in nylon tents? Better yet, maybe they’ll have a nylon tent David can borrow, since he will most definitely be needing one. There is no fathomable way the ridiculous cliché of _‘sleeping under the stars_ ’ will ever hold up in a real life situation. Such flights of fancy can only exist within the pages of a romance novel or the idiotic minds of wanderlust-filled adolescents. 

David takes a sip of his coffee and trudges on, all thoughts on deeds and ghosts momentarily forgotten. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a week behind on this. So sorry to those still reading. I thank you for haning on with me and I hope that you enjoyed this chapter. 
> 
> Come visit on Tumblr if you'd like to chat (Zigster-Ao3) and if you feel so inclinded, please leave me some comment love. <3


End file.
